


Meta Fables

by DrummerWench



Category: Meta - Fandom
Genre: Allegory, Fandom, Gen, Meta, fable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-04-11
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-08 20:45:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrummerWench/pseuds/DrummerWench
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ongoing series of little fables commenting on fanfiction in the real world. Each chapter is one short but complete tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Goose

_ **The Goose** _

A Contemporary Allegory

Once upon a time, there was a goose.

Now you might think, might you not?--this being a fairy tale and all, that this goose laid golden eggs.

Not so.  The goose laid eggs of every description--not just silver or copper, but ruby, glass, crystal and pearl.  She also laid eggs of thistle and feather and other peculiar or even disgusting substances.  She laid no eggs of gold, however, though occasionally there might be a filigree of gold on some of the more elaborate jeweled eggs.

The elf-women who tended the goose cared not at all about golden eggs, but loved the eggs they received.  Some brave souls even pulled on gloves and tore into the thistle-eggs to find the gem at the core, though it might be but a tiny garnet egg nestled amongst the prickles.

The fame of the goose spread far and wide.  A man, an agent by trade, heard of the goose.

"If only," he thought, "this goose could produce golden eggs!  How rich I could be!"

He went to the goose-women and said, "Lend me your goose.  I wish to produce golden eggs."

The goose-women said, "We have no need of golden eggs.  We love our eggs of ruby and glass, of crystal and pearl.  We even love our eggs of thistle.  If you wish golden eggs, please take our advice, for we have cared for this goose many years, and know her well."

"Advice!" cried the man.  "Yes, advice.  That is just what is needed."

And with that, he seized the goose and dashed off to his group of cronies.

"Gentlemen," he said, "Ah, gentlemen and madam," he hastened to add, for there was a woman among the other agents.  "Please gather around this goose.  If you take my advice, we will be wealthy, and have all the golden eggs we need!"

So they took to prodding and poking the goose, and feeding her all manner of items, both healthy and not, in hopes of gaining eggs of gold.   Finally, the goose reared up. She spread her wings to the fullest, and screamed at the agents and bit them. Snap! her wings came down and she sprang into the air and flew straight back to her waiting tenders.

The End  


	2. Gardeners

**Gardeners**  
Another  contemporary allegory!  
   
   
Once upon a time, there were two gardeners. They lived and worked in the same village. One of the gardeners grew acres of fancy flowers that he sold in the florist shop--perfect irises, hot-house lilies, long-stemmed roses.  
   
The other worked as the village postmistress. She worked in her yard in the evenings and on weekends. She grew wildflowers and old-fashioned roses, geraniums and anything that took her fancy. Often, she picked a bouquet and gave it to a visiting friend.  
   
The professional gardener resented the amateur. "She gives away her flowers free and cuts into my business." However, the friends of the amateur gardener still bought flowers at the florist--flowers for weddings and funerals, birthdays and Mother's Days.  
   
The pro wanted to put the amateur out of business (though she was not exactly _in_ business).  
   
First, he talked to the village warlock.  
   
"Will you hex her plants?" he asked. "Then mine will be the only ones." But the warlock had often received little posies of wildflowers from her, so he refused.  
   
When the pro told the village witch, "Send a plague upon her yard (I hesitate to call it a garden) to kill those plants." However, the witch not only claimed the amateur for a friend, she actually helped her care for the flowers. She, of course, also refused.  
   
Then the pro contacted the marketing agent. "Help me," he begged. "I cannot bear to think of those loathsome weeds growing in our village."  
   
Now the marketing agent had no opinion of flowers one way or the other, but he had a sure nose for a dollar.  
   
As long as the pro paid him to do so, he would crank out advertising schemes and coordinated multi-media campaigns.  
   
Some of the villagers believed the advertising, and began to shun the amateur. Others rallied around her, and planned a boycott of the pro gardener.  
   
Most people, though, had paid no attention to the campaign, and were oblivious to the wildflowers. They continued to buy bouquets at the florist for all occasions.  
   
The amateur gardener found herself quite puzzled by the acrimony of both the pro and the boycotters. "I grow flowers because I love them," she said. "I give them away because my friends love them, and I don't want to make a living growing flowers." She began to leave little bunches of flowers at the pro's front door.  
   
At first, he threw them in the trash. One day, though, he noticed the bright blue of the Desert Bell, and couldn't bear to discard it. He popped it into a jam jar, thinking _I won't waste a real vase on this_.  
   
He realized that he was spending money on the marketing campaign, but had seen no real change in his flower shop income. All unknown to him, the witch had placed enchantments on the wildflowers. As long as he carried them into his home, he would be subject to spells of clear thinking and empathy with others.  
   
And so he fired the marketing agent, turned his attention to growing and selling his flowers, and learned to ignore the amateur gardener.  
 The End  



	3. Dryads 1

In the Enchanted Forest lived a dryad. Many dryads lived there, tending their flowering shrubs and trees for the pleasure of passersby, each other, and, of course, their own. Some grew flowers of many colors, and wandered from grove to grove, while others stayed in one place and specialized in one or two types of plants.

This particular dryad did not start out as one, indeed, most of them did not! She began as a simple passerby, looking appreciatively at the flowers. She liked some flowers better than others, naturally, and one variety took her fancy quite strongly.

One day, while relaxing in a grove of her favorite flowers, she found a seed. It did not seem to belong to any of the dryads, so in an overlooked corner she planted it. It sprouted and grew, slowly, but she didn't care about that, because it produced definite flowers, which she loved dearly. Almost unnoticed, she had become a dryad.

The dryad spent all of her effort on these flowers, pruning the stems with her teeth and watering them, as prescribed, with her tears. She knew that some dryads claimed to water their flowers with their own blood, but she didn't go quite that far. At least, only once or twice, and really only a drop here and there.

She tended her flowers carefully, nipping a twig here, deadheading there, all the while anxiously fluffing the petals and wondering if her flowers were really attractive to anyone but herself.

It was the custom among the dryads to wander about the groves, admiring the other dryads' flowers. Occasionally, they would bring water in cupped hands to the ones that took their fancy, for though the dryads could only water their own plants with tears (or blood), they could carry spring water to anyone else's.

At first, our dryad just timidly gazed with pleasure upon the neighboring blooms, thinking, “I can't really carry much water, and surely I'll spill it in the wrong spot.” Soon, though, she started bringing a few drops to some she liked. “I don't want them to start drooping,” she said.

The other dryads began to bring water in their palms to her plants. How bright and fresh the flowers appeared to her then! Some of them even began to produce seeds, which she happily harvested and planted.

The dryad realized how happy she felt when one of the others watered her plants. “Surely they feel the same way about theirs!” she thought. There and then she vowed to bring water to all the flowers she admired.

 

End  
  


 

 


	4. Dryads 2

In the Enchanted Forest, full of bright blooms and plants in flowering glades, some shadows lurked.

Some dryads not only loved only a particular kind of flower, they took violent exception to other, sometimes closely related, types of flowers. They would agitate strongly that no dryad should be permitted to grow the flowers they despised.

Also, not all the dryads and passersby brought water to the groves of flowers. Some brought nothing, which at least caused no harm, but occasionally one would spill poisonous effluvia around a bright bloom, claiming it would be better dead. The other dryads tried to wash away the venom; mostly they succeeded, though sometimes the demoralized dryad would tear up her withered blossoms, and leave the Enchanted Forest for life as a temp accountant in a small Rust Belt town.

“What can we do?” the dryads wondered, about both groups of discouragers. “We can't let these few wicked ones poison our lovely gardens!”

In some of the glades, the resident dryads put up signs, like “If You Can't Say Something Nice, Don't Say Anything At All”, or “Hate-Free Zone”, or “Don't Like? Don't Look!”

Other dryads began to patrol their groves, and drive away the malicious poisoners, saying, “If you don't like these flowers, just move along to another grove, where you'll find something you like better.”

Still others carefully scrutinized all who approached, only letting a trusted few enter the glade, and immediately ejecting those who behaved suspiciously.

This did not stop all the poisoners, but the dryads valued all the flowers too deeply to give up. Their vigilance continues to this day.

 

End

 

 


End file.
